


Four Funerals and a Wedding

by Susan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/F, Family, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Major Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Romance, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Series 4 ends with the Six Thatchers, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 11:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12011319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susan/pseuds/Susan
Summary: The story of John and Sherlock or Nothing worth having is ever easy.John fit himself neatly into Sherlock, his arm curving over his back, his hand tucked warmly under Sherlock’s body. John thought Sherlock had fallen asleep when the feather-light breath of Sherlock’s whisper drifted across his skin, “Stay with me.”John understood then that Sherlock had always been there, in the corner of his mind, in the tracks of his memory, right there close enough to touch. He held onto him, trying hard to steady his voice. “Where else would I go?”





	Four Funerals and a Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> I gave up trying to write around the mess of the last two episodes of Season 4. So in this story, the series ended after the Six Thatchers, with Mary dead and John and Sherlock estranged. 
> 
> Thanks as always to peg22, who always finds the right words.

 

**_1._ **

John was eight when his grandmother – his mother’s mother – died.  He understood death by then – he’d seen the stillborn calf Daisy had that spring, but like all bad things in life, he never expected it could happen to his family.

“Why did Gran die?” he asked his mother the night before the funeral.

“She was old and tired,” she told him as she pulled the quilt over him. “God wanted her to rest.”

He suspected his mother was lying, he’d never known his grandmother to do anything _but_ rest.

“But, Mum . . .”

She kissed him quickly on the forehead. “Go to sleep. She’s with the angels now.”

Now he was sure she was lying. She’d used that exact same voice last summer to explain how the tooth fairy took away the baby tooth from under his pillow and left him 10p. Three weeks ago he’d found an envelope marked _John’s first tooth_ in her top drawer. He hadn’t told anyone yet, but he’d begun to have his doubts about Father Christmas, too.

He trusted his father to tell the truth. He waited until after tea on Saturday to ask him.

“Why did Gran die?”

His father put down his newspaper and lifted him onto his lap. John leaned his head back against the worn flannel of his father’s shirt. “She was very sick. The kind of sick that the doctors don’t know how to fix.”

“They fixed Granddad after he had his heart tack.”

“Heart _attack._ Your grandmother was sicker than he was. Besides, some people are just too mean to die.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t tell your mum I said that.”

John lifted his father’s wrist to his ear so he could listen to the ticking of his watch. He counted to twenty-five. Once, he’d counted all the way to two hundred without talking.  “Dad, Mum always says I should pray for the things I want.  Why didn’t she pray for Gran to get better? Then she wouldn’t be so sad.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“So why didn’t God listen? He listened to me. I prayed and prayed for a new train set for my birthday, and I got one, ‘member?”

“Sometimes you have to accept that God knows best. That you don’t always get what you want, just because you ask.”

“Doesn’t seem fair to me.” John pulled the pouch of pipe tobacco from his father’s front pocket, opened it and held it to his nose. He loved that smell, a mix of wood and apples that would forever remind him of his father. “Will you get ever get too sick to fix?”

“Maybe one day. Not for a long time, though. I’ve got a lot of chores to do between now and then.” He held out his pipe and John filled it with tobacco. It was a ritual they’d started when John was barely five.  “Any more questions or do I get to smoke this pipe in peace?”

John stood and brushed the loose tobacco from his shirt. “No, Harry’s promised to read me the next chapter of _Treasure Island_ if I tidy her room.”

“Johnny?” his father said when he was at the door. John stopped and turned back.

“I’m not sure you should be using up all God’s goodwill asking for train sets. You might need something really important one day.”

“Like a dog?”

His father laughed. “Exactly. Like a dog.”

****

John was stationed in Afghanistan when his when his father died. He understood nothing about death by then, except that it was random and cruel and inevitable.

After the funeral, he bought a new leather strap for his father’s watch and wore it every day. Sometimes, in the evenings, when he was alone and it was finally quiet, he would hold the watch against his ear and remember.

_**2.** _

They arrived at the church half an hour before the funeral started. John still didn’t understand why they were there. Sherlock had refused to explain, saying only that it had nothing to do with a case. Nothing to do with _them_.  Whatever that meant.

_“There is no reason for you to come. You must have other things to do. Update your blog. Cull your jumper collection.”_

_“I’m curious.” They’d been sharing a flat for almost two months, but John sometimes felt he understood Sherlock a little less each day._

_“About what?” Sherlock selected a tie from the hook in the wardrobe, examined it and threw it onto the growing pile on the floor._

_“What it takes to get Sherlock Holmes into a church. Wearing a tie no less.” John reached into the wardrobe and handed Sherlock a tie._

_Sherlock sighed and looped it around his neck. “I believe it is customary to pay one’s respects.”_

_“But you don’t respect anyone.”_

_“Stay home, then.”_

_He’d said it lightly, but John had heard something else there. A dare. Or a warning, perhaps. He couldn’t decide which._

_“Not bloody likely,” John answered._

 

St. James’s Roman Catholic Church was cool and dark and smelled like candles and furniture polish. John followed Sherlock to a pew at the back of the church, genuflected quickly and slipped into the empty seat. Outside the confessional, an old woman waited her turn, her white hair covered by a red polka-dot scarf tied at her chin. A teenage boy, who looked like he was on his way home from a football match, waited behind her. “Small boys, small sins,” Father McCrory had always said before giving John his penance. All it took were three Hail Marys and a few words from the priest to wipe the slate clean. But that was before Afghanistan. Before Sherlock. How many Hail Marys would he need now?

Sherlock sat beside him, eyes staring straight ahead, hands in his lap. He reached inside his suit jacket every few minutes for his phone, but stopped short each time. If Sherlock were anyone else, John would have thought he was nervous.

John used his phone to check the week’s obituaries in the Telegraph. He was looking for a likely candidate.

_AIKENS, Mitchell - It is with great sorrow we must announce the passing of Mitchell Aikens at Stratford General Hospital a week before his 90 th birthday . . . _

_CHIAN, Jing- A beautiful and adorable girl with an infectious smile, Jing was loved by all. She was taken from us too soon, passing away . . ._

_LOCKWOOD, Peter - Peacefully at his home with his family by his side in London in his 83rd year . . ._

_ANHORN, Louise Joan - Passed away peacefully and surrounded by her family at St. Bart’s Hospital, London . . ._

Sherlock reached over and turned the phone toward him. “Really, John? You could have just asked.”

“I did ask,” John said.

 With a sigh, Sherlock tapped on the third name on the list.

 

 **LOCKWOOD, Peter** - Peacefully at his home with his family by his side in London in his 83rd year. Predeceased by his beloved wife Kathleen. Dear father of Anna Gilchrest (Thomas), Steven (Lidia) and Simon (Hayley). Cherished grandfather of Kathryn, David, Michael and Scott. Dear brother of Edith Somers (Ken) and brother-in-law of Patricia Sillery. Also surviving are numerous nieces, nephews, cousins and their families. Peter wished to be remembered as he was through his life and that those who have fond memories will celebrate these in their heart. As such, a private family service will be held. Memorial donations can be made to St. James’s Roman Catholic Church or the Heart and Stroke Foundation. Online condolences can be offered at [www.kanefunerals.co.uk](http://www.kanefunerals.co.uk).

 “The notice says ‘family’. A private _family_ service.”

“Yes.”

“And are you?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

 

During Mass, John stood and sat and knelt, one eye on the family gathered in the first four rows and one on Sherlock. He listened as a soloist sang  _Ave Maria_  and sat through a eulogy that was short and generic and left him knowing little more about Peter Lockwood than he had when it began. Between communion and the recessional hymn, with no idea why they were there, Sherlock stood and turned to leave. John pulled him back by his sleeve.

“We’ve stayed this long,” he whispered. “At least wait until the end.”

Sherlock sighed and sat down.

The recessional was _Danny Boy_. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Trite,” he muttered too loudly. John shushed him.

When it was over, the family wiped their tears and exchanged hugs. All except one, a tall blond man, mid-thirties, dressed in a suit even more bespoke than Sherlock’s. He stood back from the rest, hands in his pockets.  

John watched them, wondering again about Sherlock’s connection to Peter Lockwood. He didn’t imagine Sherlock was given to random displays of sentimentality.  He stood and reached for his coat, folded on the seat beside him. When he turned back, the blond man (he of the £1000 suit) stopped at their pew and was looking at Sherlock like he’d seen a ghost. No, not a ghost. More like a man who’s just seen a large fish walking down Kensington Street, peering into shop windows. Impossible, but happening nonetheless.

 There was a long silence.

“Sherlock.” He held out one beautifully manicured hand.  “This is . . . unexpected.”

Sherlock’s hands remained at his side. “Your father was kind to me.”

Anger flashed across the man’s face. “More than you deserved.”

“That was the consensus, yes.”

“You look . . . well,” he said, sounding vaguely disappointed.

The man glanced at John (who’d never felt shorter and plainer) and back at Sherlock. John reached across Sherlock and extended his hand, “John Watson. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

They shook hands briefly. “Sherlock’s forgotten his manners, I’m afraid. I’m Simon Lockwood. An old friend.” He glanced at Sherlock. “We were at uni together. And you are?”

“A new friend.”

“My turn to offer condolences.” He looked at Sherlock again. “My sister’s reserved a private room at the Savoy for lunch. She’s going to play mater as long as she can. Why don’t you come? Bring Tom of course.”

“John,” John corrected.

“I don’t do lunch. Or families,” Sherlock said.

“Or funerals, as I recall.” Simon said. “Yet here you are.” He laid a hand against Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock stiffened but didn’t pull away.  
  
“Drinks, then. Tonight.”

Sherlock hesitated. “Not possible. John and I are working.”

Simon looked surprised. “I half-expected you’d still be playing Hercule Poirot at dinner parties.” He turned to John. “It’s amazing the things Sherlock can deduce from the size of the bulge in one’s trousers.”

Sherlock moved his arm away and Simon stepped back.

“Don’t fall for his parlour tricks,” Simon said. His tone was icy. “He’s as clueless as the rest of us.” Someone called Simon’s name from the vestibule and he turned and nodded. “I should go.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and removed a small white card.  “My number.”

Sherlock’s hand hovered for a few long seconds before he took it.

 

In the cab, Sherlock gave the driver an address John didn’t recognise.

“Indian restaurant,” he explained before John could ask.

John added Indian cuisine to the short list of the things he knew Sherlock liked (his list of what he _didn’t_ like was much longer). He liked Oolong tea, coffee but never at home and never from Starbucks. He liked biscuits and expensive cologne and posh shirts. Rain storms. Most of all, he liked being the clever one in the room. John would have added his own name to the list, but most days he wasn’t completely sure about that either.

“You like curry? Whenever I suggest it, you make a face.”

“I’ve seen your takeaway boxes. Taj Mahal, John?”

“It’s close. And the tikka masala’s not terrible.”

“Mediocrity is its own reward.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Sherlock smiled. John recognised that smile. It was the one Sherlock used to nick the last piece of toast, the one that let John forgive him a hundred trespasses, the one that sooner or later would get John into his bed.

 

The Ajit Palace wasn’t. A palace that is. Not even close.

Sherlock waved at the waiter, who scowled, arms folded across his chest.

They slid into a corner booth near the kitchen. The waiter dropped two menus on the table and kept walking. Two half-filled glasses of tepid water followed a few minutes later.

“They hate all their customers?”

“Sumeet blames me for his father’s unfortunate incarceration.”

“And are you?”

“I simply helped Lestrade distinguish his arse from his elbow. Several people were subsequently arrested, Sumeet’s father among them.”

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table, then stood and pushed through the kitchen doors. He came back with two bottles of Cobra beer, a basket of warm naan and a plate of samosas. “We can start with these.”

“Do you come here often?” John finally asked, partly to break the silence and partly because he was curious, but it came out sounding like a cheap pickup line.

Sherlock wagged his eyebrows at him. “Are you flirting with me, Dr. Watson?”

“No, of course not. I was just wondering . . .” He swallowed and carded a hand through his hair. Ever since he met Sherlock, it was like he had an itch somewhere he couldn’t reach. He tried once to describe Sherlock to Harry, but he didn’t get past an awkward “it’s complicated” before changing the subject.

A young girl – Sumeet’s daughter, he guessed – brought them a pot of tea and two cups. “Peace offering,” Sherlock said. He nodded at Sumeet who was standing behind the counter drying glasses. He got the barest hint of a shrug in return. “Sumeet may hold a grudge, but he also knows I didn’t tell Lestrade everything. Where would I eat if his mother was incarcerated?”

The tea was followed by more beer and plates of lamb vindaloo and paneer, jasmine rice and a chicken tikka masala that put the Taj Mahal to shame.  

John watched Sherlock’s neck muscles contract as he drained his beer and found himself reaching across the table to brush a stray piece of rice from Sherlock’s silk shirt. Sherlock smiled at him and John had the strange feeling that Sherlock knew exactly what he was thinking. Which was confusing, because he didn’t know himself.

After his third beer, John finally asked. He wasn’t planning to, only he’d been thinking it since he watched Simon lay his hand on Sherlock’s arm and he felt a twinge of something that might have been jealousy, but really couldn’t have been, because that would be stupid and adolescent and John was a grown man. “Did you fuck Simon Lockwood?” 

Sherlock’s laugh was dry and short. “No.” He slid out of the booth and dropped a twenty pound note on the table.  “Not for lack of trying.” He turned and walked out the back of the restaurant.

John followed him, past the empty boxes and bags of rice, up two steps and out the door into the alley. The empty alley. _Damn_. Sherlock had a habit of leaving him stranded. On street corners, in pubs, at New Scotland Yard. Once on a case in Sussex he’d driven off in the hired car while John was in the loo. What was unusual this time was that he’d paid the tab before taking a runner.

John looked down the alley and suddenly Sherlock appeared beside him, pushing him up against the wall.  John felt the press of the bricks against his back and Sherlock’s curry-tinged breath across his face.  John didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.  Then Sherlock’s lips were on John’s and he was kissing him, his tongue in his mouth and all John could think was that he didn’t know how it happened, but he was kissing Sherlock back, and it was fierce and hot and nothing, nothing like kissing anyone else.

When they broke apart, their gasps were loud in the deserted alley. Sherlock was pressed up hard against him, his leg shoved between John’s, rocking against his erection. Sherlock’s hands clutched at his hips, at his trousers, at his arse.

Then Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of him and ran his hand over the front of John’s trousers and reached for the zipper. John bit his lip hard to stifle a moan. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock said, his voice low and rough. “I’m not a cock-tease like Simon.”

 _Like Simon?_  John brought his hands up, fisted them into Sherlock’s coat and pulled him up from his knees. He slid his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, pushed his hips forward. He groaned and Sherlock’s kiss was a little less smooth, a little more frantic.

Then he placed one hand on Sherlock’s chest, heaved him away and punched him square in the jaw.

Sherlock staggered back a step, but recovered quickly. He pressed his hand to his mouth and looked down to see if he was bleeding. He tilted his head and looked at John. “What was that for?” he said, sounding more curious than angry. “Change of heart?”

"Sod off," John said, panting a little, pain shooting up his arm. He tried to flex his hand and winced. “Who were you snogging just then? Me? Or Simon bloody Lockwood?”

“No one would ever mistake you for Simon.”

“You’re a right bastard, aren’t you?” he hissed. He would have taken aim again if his hand didn’t hurt so much.

“I only meant . . .” He shook his head. “Your hand? Is it –” He stepped towards John, hands raised.

“It’s fine,” he lied. “It’s all fine.”  John blew out a breath. Blew out the anger and walked away.

 

It was dark by the time he made it back from the A&E to Baker Street, his left hand encased in a plaster cast and a little lightheaded from the painkillers. He’d hoped he’d grown out of his adolescent tendency to throw a punch when he was angry. As one of the smallest boys at school, he’d learned that one well-timed punch early in the term earned him a grudging respect.

The lights in the flat were on, but there was no sign of Sherlock. He sank into his chair, closed his eyes and wished for someone to bring him an empty glass, two ice cubes and the bottle of Jameson from beneath the sink.  

He’d done a lot of wishing lately.   

He heard the sound of ice clinking and liquid splashing and opened his eyes to Sherlock standing above him holding out a tumbler of amber liquid. “I expect you need this.”

John took the glass. “Yeah. Ta.” He drained the glass in one swallow.

Sherlock glanced at the cast. “Broken?”

“Barely,” he said. “Fifth metacarpal.  You?”

 “Still in one piece.” He turned towards the lamp light and John saw the faint bloom of a bruise on Sherlock’s jaw.  “About Simon –”

“None of my business.” Surprisingly, he meant it.

“Sorry,” they both said and then Sherlock was taking the glass from John’s hand and pulling him up from the chair. He set the glass on the side table and leaned forward. He hesitated but John nodded and his mouth was on John’s again. John kissed him back, because this time it didn’t matter why Sherlock was kissing him, only that he was. When he pulled back there was a sigh falling from Sherlock mouth onto John’s lips and for a moment he looked at John liked he’d never seen him before, like he was something he never expected.

Sherlock started to apologise again, but John wrapped his one good hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled his mouth down on his. Sherlock looped his arms around John’s waist and half-dragged, half-carried him to the bedroom, crashing against the doorway and toppling onto the bed in a mess of arms and legs. Sherlock was all around him, his brilliant hands dashing across John’s body, his hips pressing down on John.

Sherlock got his hands between them, undoing John’s belt, pulling down the zipper like he’d done it a thousand times before. He reached in and pulled him out, his hand warm around John’s cock.

“Christ,” Sherlock panted, hot and damp, against John’s cheek. “I – God – ”  He rocked his hips forward again and again.  John couldn’t stop looking at the beat of his pulse at the base of his neck and further down, the bruise on his jaw.

John bit his lip and shut his eyes, thrusted again and his orgasm crashed over him. He was still trembling when Sherlock released his own cock from his trousers and John circled it awkwardly with his right hand, moving frantically until he could feel Sherlock coming. It sent another shudder through his body, like a faint echo.

Later, John leaned against the window and watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall, fast asleep, his arm flung over his eyes, and felt a sudden sweet swell of happiness. It was the way Sherlock’s hair fell across his face, the messy puddle of trousers on the floor by the bed, the half-empty tea cup on the nightstand. It was even the weight of the plaster cast on his arm. It was the tiny details, the uncertainties and inconveniences of life with Sherlock that he loved, because he recognised that those were the things that proved he belonged. 

Sherlock turned over and cracked one eye open. “I’m cold. Come back to bed.”  

John slipped into the bed beside him, shivering in the breeze from the open window. Sherlock tugged the sheet over them, wrapped both arms around John and pulled him close. “Stay with me,” he whispered, then kissed John lightly on the lips before falling back to sleep.

John lay on his back, trying to ignore the pain in his hand and watched the shadows from the street lights flicker across the ceiling. He thought about what happened tonight, about tomorrow and about Sherlock. He remembered the feel of Sherlock’s warm cock in his hand, the salty taste of his skin on his tongue, the heat of his breath against his face.  

 _Stay_ , Sherlock had said.  

Where else would he go? 

 

**_3._ **

It was John who wanted a service for Sherlock. Somewhere away from the city, he told Harry, away from the cameras and the reporters and the lies. John recognised a funeral was probably not what Sherlock would have wanted, but throwing himself off the roof had taken away any say he might have had in the matter. It turned out that Sherlock being dead had a profound effect on John’s ability to think about anything besides Sherlock being dead, so when his sister offered to organise it, he agreed.

_“Please John, it’s the least I can do.”_

_“He was horrid to you. You hated him.”_

_“Everyone did. Except you. And possibly Mrs. Hudson.”_

_“I hate him now too.”_

_“Then I should find a rather small church, don’t you think?”_

 

Harry had always been good in a crisis, being needed filled the same empty space in her that alcohol and bad relationships did. If she had chosen wedding planner or social worker instead of solicitor as career, she might have managed to stay sober for more than a month at a time.

She found a small stone church in Devon. The vicar was young and sympathetic and didn’t ask if the stories the tabloids screamed about Sherlock were true. She sent e-mails to everyone on John’s list and filled the church with baskets of lilacs and white tulips. Sherlock’s parents sent John a message reeking with false regret; they were in South Africa visiting friends and couldn’t (wouldn’t?) return. He started at least three angry all-cap replies but deleted each one. Mycroft, forever clueless, sent a cheque for £500 and maintained both his silence and his distance.

There would be no casket, no ashes. Mycroft had already claimed those.

Five minutes into the service, as the last notes of the organ prelude faded, John knew it was a mistake.  But it was too late to do anything but live through it. Which, when he thought about it, was pretty much how he approached everything lately.

It was a typical late spring afternoon, brilliant sunshine one minute, dark clouds skittering across the sky the next. The rain started midway through Mike Stamford’s short, awkward eulogy.

A shard of lightning cracked, and John automatically counted in his head, one thousand-one, one thousand-two, one thousand-three, before the thunderclap sounded. Mike stopped speaking, looked up and attempted a joke about how brilliant Sherlock was – even dead, he’d found a way to piss on everyone. John was the only one who laughed.

It was still raining when the service ended. Everyone huddled by the door, looking at the sky for signs of clearing. John brushed by them, past their murmured condolences and whispered concern, out into the rain. He stood in the churchyard on the drenched grass and lifted his face to the sky.

He closed his eyes and he was back in Surrey with Sherlock, the sky black and apocalyptic above them. They were tramping through a pasture, searching for a murder weapon Sherlock was convinced was buried there. When the rain started, John looked over and Sherlock had his head back with his eyes screwed shut, mouth open, his tongue out. For just a moment, John could see the boy Sherlock used to be. It was unexpected and something warm and right rose in his chest. If he hadn’t been British and a soldier by training, he might have recognised it as love.

Harry touched his shoulder and he opened his eyes, she was telling him to come back inside. She had black smudges under each eye and he was touched that she had been crying, if not for Sherlock, then for him. He held out his arms and she stepped into his embrace. It was only later, during the reception in the church hall, when he heard her talking to Sally Donovan about “that selfish fucking bastard” that he realised it had been the rain, not grief that ruined her makeup.

****

The vicar appeared outside John’s door three days after Sherlock’s funeral. He stood in the hallway, fingering his collar nervously. He reminded John of every eager medical student he’d  ever trained. “I thought perhaps you might – “

John was impatient. “I’m an atheist. You’d be wasting your time.”

“You were rather . . . distraught . . . at Mr. Holmes’ funeral.”

 _Distraught_. Such an old-fashioned word out of such a young mouth. “Sherlock is dead.”  The word had jagged edges that ripped his heart.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Dr. Watson? Suicide can be very difficult –”

“No disrespect, Vicar, but just go away.”  

 

The vicar reappeared two weeks later.  He was leaning awkwardly against the wall, holding two Starbucks cups in a cardboard tray, when John stepped out of a cab in front of the flat.  “I thought –”

“Still an atheist,” John said. _And Sherlock’s still dead_. He scrubbed a tired hand across his face. He’d just finished another long shift at the A &E. He needed to go upstairs and shower and change. He’d also promised Mrs. Hudson he’d move some boxes for her.  The same boxes he moved for her every few days. He understood it was her way of checking on him, and he did his best to be patient. He wasn’t the only one missing Sherlock.

 “I thought you might need someone to talk to and I was in the neighbourhood. How are you?”

“Drowning.” It was a relief to say it out loud.

The vicar stepped forward and laid a hand on John’s arm. “Perhaps we can go upstairs. I brought coffee.” He extended the tray towards John as proof.

John pulled back his arm. The vicar was too young, his eyes too limpid, his faith too certain.  “I don’t believe in God,” John said, never knowing for certain if this were true. His faith had seeped out of him over the years, like a language learned in childhood.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.  My name is McGowan, by the way. David McGowan.”

“Yes, I remember.” John unlocked the door and held it open. “Fine, fine.”  He was too tired to argue.

In the lounge, they sat facing each other, John in Sherlock’s chair and McGowan in John’s. He sipped his coffee and waited for John to begin.

John cleared his throat. “No disrespect, but it’s not you I want to talk to. It’s Sherlock. There are things I want to tell him, things I need to ask –” He looked down and rubbed at a rust-coloured spot on his trousers. 

“Then talk to him. Tell him how you feel.”

“How I _feel_? Most of the time I don’t feel anything.” How could he explain it wasn’t a broken heart he suffered when Sherlock died? It was the total absence of heart and the sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t a good man because somehow he had ruined everything decent that had ever happened to him. He looked at the vicar. “I want him not to be dead anymore.” He drained the rest of his coffee. “My father told me once that I shouldn’t waste God’s time on trivial things, that I should save my prayers for something important. Guess this is what he meant. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

He smiled. “The Aladdin’s lamp school of theology. Three wishes is all you get?”

“Father McGowan, I – ”

“Call me David. I don’t look much like anyone’s father.”

“OK. David. I appreciate that you want to help, but there’s nothing you can do. Really.” His voice faltered. “I’m sorry but I need to shower.” He stood and carried both empty cups to the kitchen. When he came back, the vicar was gone. On the table beside Sherlock’s chair, David had left a white card with his e-mail address and phone number. John tossed it in the bin on his way to the shower.

He fished it out a few days later. It was stained and wet and smelled like Chinese takeaway. He’d just worked thirty-six hours straight. Lost two patients – one to a ruptured aorta. Nothing to be done. And another to a brain bleed – blunt force trauma. Long fall from a high place. Construction worker stepped onto a ladder that wasn’t there. Three weeping kids and a wife who couldn’t understand anything he told her. He’d handed her an organ procurement pamphlet and left the room.

He fingered the vicar’s card and considered calling him. The construction worker’s bloody head had triggered all the fucked up emotions he’d been trying so hard to ignore. He looked around the flat – Sherlock’s flat, never his – and made up his mind. He’d been living with ghosts long enough. Tomorrow, he’d make an appointment with Ella Thompson, pack his things and find a new flat. A new job. _A new life_.  

But tonight, he’d sit in his chair and finish the last of Sherlock’s best whisky. And tomorrow, he’d begin to learn how to forgive himself for all the things Sherlock had done.

 

Two months later, he found a job with regular hours at a clinic in Holborn, and two weeks after that, a small furnished flat nearby. It was newish, the walls painted a boring beige, the furniture straight out of an IKEA advert.

He’d also become his sister’s special project. After years of infrequent phone calls and even more infrequent visits, his grief had mobilised her into action. It was unexpected and unwanted and after six week of sessions with Dr. Thompson, mostly unwarranted. John had stepped back from the ledge and was once again doing what he did best – carrying on.

She invited herself to tea a week after he moved in. He picked up curry from the Ajit Palace on the way home and she brought two bottles of a middling Chardonnay. She walked through the sterile rooms, her heels echoing loudly on the bare wood floors, and told him, straight-faced, that it reminded her of a safe house. “This is so unlike you – it’s as if you’re in witness protection. No one would think of looking for you here.”

“No one is.” Even Mycroft, his concern as false as his smile, had stopped hovering.

She shook her head. “I never liked Sherlock’s flat – but this . . . this is . . .”

“I shall be perfectly happy here,” John said, spooning tikka masala and rice onto two plates.

“Oh, John,” she said, refilling her glass. “It’s not in your nature to be happy. You must know that by now.”

****

He didn’t expect to be happy. Or content. Or God forbid, fulfilled. He only hoped not to be desperately _un_ happy. It helped to think of the months following Sherlock’s death like rehab , his goal was to simply live through as many days as it took for his body to make room for his grief, for his brain to learn how to process a future without Sherlock. Harry had accused him of being addicted to Sherlock. She wasn’t far wrong.

He found the vicar on the church’s website and emailed him. He thanked him for the funeral and the coffee and his concern. Once he started typing, he couldn’t stop until he’d told him all of it.  After that, they met for a meal each time David was in town, and later for drinks in John’s flat.

Relapses happened. Some nights, he’d find a bar or nightclub far from home, sit at a table against the wall and look for someone willing to give him what he wanted. He never asked their names, never made small talk. At home, emptying his pockets, he would sometimes find a phone number scrawled across a napkin. He tossed them and never went back to the same place twice.  

He was as surprised as Harry that he made it through the first year – he had somehow survived all the holidays and birthdays and anniversaries. Something began to revive within him. “Grief,” David reminded him over drinks one evening, “is the final act of love, and recovery is the necessary betrayal on which your future depends.” He filled John’s glass. “And if you like this new nurse as much as you say you do, for God’s sake, stop talking about her and ask her out.”

 

**_4._ **

The cathedral in Varna is empty. You choose it because you need a quiet place to silence the screaming that fills your head. You’ve made a total cock-up of what was meant to be easy. _Typical_ , Mycroft whispers.  You had a plan. A week to get your Bulgarian up to speed, a week to make contact, two weeks to get what Mycroft needed.   _Easy peasy,_ he said.  And it was, until it all went spectacularly arse over tea kettle. Your arse, Dimitar Ivanov’s tea kettle.  

You slide carefully into a pew in the back, head down, hood pulled up. The church is a forest, the rows of marble columns line the nave like trees, stretching up to the sky-painted ceiling. You crave the silence it offers, and your ears strain to hear it. You lean back until you remember the stitches, painful, raw, less than professional, that wind around your hip and up your back. You reach into your pocket and wrap your fingers around the vial. You tip what’s left of the white powder onto the back of your shaky hand, snort it quickly and drop the empty vial back in your pocket.  You’ve got a few hours before you’ll need to find more.   It’s the least of your problems.

You’ve been awake for thirty-six hours but it feels like you haven’t slept since you left London. Three months that turned into six that’s going on eighteen. Each time you think you’re close to the end, Mycroft nudges the finish line further out of sight.

Your eyes slide closed and a door in your mind palace cracks open – sunlight scraping under the door. Baker Street. _Home_.

John smiles when he sees you, leads you into the bedroom and pushes you onto the bed. He leans over you, pulling off your muddy shoes, sliding your shirt over your head and fussing about the stitches. He’s touching you, his hands washing away the dirt and blood and you try to tell him you’re sorry but his mouth is on yours, stealing your breath, and his hand is pushing into your pants and all you can think is _again, again. Don’t stop_.

Stop.

You’re doing it again.

 

You hear footsteps in the choir loft above you and for a short stupid second, you think you’ve been followed, but logic tells you that’s impossible. There is no one left to follow you.

The cathedral fills with the first notes of . . . you knew this once . . . Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Funeral music.  Last time you heard it, you were with John. In another church. At another funeral. John was half in love with you by then, wasn’t he?  You just wanted an easy shag.  But that was before . . .

You stand to leave but it’s too late, you hear voices in the vestibule, so you sit back down and watch as a stranger’s coffin is carried down the centre aisle by six men in ill-fitting grey suits. A weeping woman follows behind, white hair pulled back under a black lace veil. She’s carrying a bouquet of white lilies and takes small, halting steps that remind you of a bride. She lays the flowers on the coffin and collapses into a pew in the front row. There are more mourners. A priest. The smell of incense. _Ave Maria_.

 _Ave Moriarty_.

Mycroft never said if there was a funeral for you. You watched John at your grave, equal parts relieved and disappointed he hadn’t worked it out. Playing dead was the only way out. And the only way in. But you miscalculated. Never expected Moriarty to be a knot even you can’t untie. Never guessed that leaving would be so hard. Because you’re a bloody machine, isn’t that what John said?

John said a lot of things.

John said, “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right,” and you didn’t know if he was talking about the new case or the heat of his hand low on your back.

John said, “Kiss me, for fuck’s sake,” and even though you knew it was because he wanted you to stop talking about trace elements and carpet fibres and blood types, you kissed him and it was brilliant but it was all teeth and harder than it should have been and you bit John’s lip just to hear him gasp.

John said, “I’m just your friend,” and you said, “I don’t have friends.”

John said, “This is Sarah,” and you could see past the smile to her hand on John’s back, her fingers closing possessively in his shirt and your chest tightened because if there was one thing you knew as well as anything, it was what a person looked like when they were mad for John Watson.

John said, “Of course I believe you,” and you knew then you’d carry the weight of that belief forever.

And all you wanted to say when you left him behind was, "I'm sorry."

 

**_5._ **

When the wedding invitation arrived, John set the unopened envelope on the table beside the door and forgot about it. He was surprised they had bothered to send him a formal invitation, since as best man, his presence was pretty much a sure thing. Harry had asked him minutes after she and Lauren announced their engagement at Christmas dinner. Saying yes was the easiest decision he’d made in a long time.

They booked a small hotel near Edinburgh for the ceremony and reception. Outdoors if it was sunny. Indoors if it wasn’t. September in Scotland was likely to be sunny _and_ rainy.

His sister had lived with Lauren in Edinburgh for almost two years now – Lauren had somehow managed to do what no one else had been able to, give her a reason to stay sober for longer than it took for dust to settle on a corkscrew.  Harry said (when she said anything at all about it) that Lauren always saw in her the person Harry wanted to be, so it was easy to become that for her. It sounded like a bit of touchy-feely nonsense to John, but Harry hadn’t had a drink in almost two years, so there must be something to it.

The morning before the wedding, John reluctantly dropped off a sleepy Rosie at Molly’s. “It’s only three days,” Molly said, pushing him out the door. “Go, or you’ll miss your train. She’ll be fine.”

He bent down to kiss the top of her head and inhaled the sweet/sour scent that he loved. Molly was right. Of course she’d be fine. She was a Watson. Watsons excelled at being fine.

The 7:30 train from King’s Cross to Edinburgh was crowded but mercifully no one sat beside him. He was looking forward to five hours of silence. No crying toddler, no whinging patients, no chatter about last night’s football match or politics or any of the thousand things everyone but him seemed to care about.    

He planned to use the time to write up some case notes and finally go through the hundreds of pictures of Rosie on his laptop. There had to be a few he could delete. How many pictures could one man collect over eighteen months?

The answer, he discovered, was five hundred and fourteen. And those were just the ones in the “ _6-12 months_ ” folder.  He managed to delete twenty or so before he closed his laptop with a sigh and leaned back. He’d need to go a lot further than Edinburgh to get through them all.

His eyes slid shut and his head dropped to his chest. Too many weeks with too little sleep had finally caught up with him.

It was the sound of the rain that woke him. He glanced at his phone – 10:15 – and guessed they were approaching York.  A little more than halfway.  Sometimes he felt as though he would always be a little more than halfway from where he wanted to be.  He heard Harry’s voice in his head, “Get over yourself, you big baby.” She was equal parts cheerleader and doomsayer.  

He closed his eyes and the patter of the raindrops against the train window pulled him back to another time, another storm.

_One night, before they were JohnandSherlock, when they were still just John and Sherlock, John had been working late, the muted glow of his laptop screen the only light in the room. He finished the blog post and rubbed his eyes, hoping what he’d written would still make sense in the morning. When he stood up, his back cracked and he went looking for Sherlock because posting always made him want to talk, the adrenalin skimming through his mind._

_It was past two but there was a wash of light coming from Sherlock’s room. John stood in the doorway, his hand raised to knock on the door, and saw that Sherlock wasn’t working or reading, just sitting in the armchair staring outside at the rain, legs outstretched and feet resting on the window sill._

_John watched him for a moment, then said, “Hi."_

_Sherlock started, the papers on his lap falling onto the floor around him. He looked over and raised one eyebrow when he saw John standing there. “It’s a little late to be skulking around."_

_John shrugged. “Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."_

_“You didn’t.”_

_John went into the bedroom and gathered up the papers from the floor. “What are you working on?"_

_Sherlock looked at him blankly for a second, then shook his head, half-smiling the way he did when deciding whether a lie was easier than the truth. “I was studying the mating habits of . . . washer beetles . . .fascinating . . .”_

_John nodded; it was too late to call Sherlock on his bullshit. He tilted his head towards the window, “Bad night out there.”_

_Sherlock turned his gaze back towards the window. John tried to read his face in the reflection, unable to see anything clearly._

_“I enjoy storms,” Sherlock said, his voice drifting, almost lost. “Growing up, I always imagined I’d sail the seven seas. I planned to ride out the worst storms lashed to the mast like Odysseus.” He shrugged, a self-conscious smile on his face, and turned back to John. "Rain makes me sentimental."_

_“It’s late,” John said. “I should go.”_

_“You don’t have to. You could stay.”_

_John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was asking.  “Do you want to talk?”_

_Sherlock half-smiled and shook his head. "No. I just want to watch the storm.”_

_John nodded and sat on the bed, and they stayed like that for a long time._

 

He was looking forward to the wedding. It would be a chance to spend time with his sister, escape London, and sleep undisturbed through the night. He would miss Rosie, but Molly was right, it was only three days and he planned to make the most of it. He’d even bought a new suit for the occasion. Harry had tried to convince him to wear a kilt ( _it’s Scotland, for crying out loud_ ) but he’d politely declined ( _I’m not wearing a bloody kilt!)._ He hadn’t had a new suit since . . .

_They stood side by side in front of the full length mirror in identical bespoke morning suits. Mary had excellent taste._

_“I don’t think I’ve ever felt shorter,” John said to Sherlock’s reflection._

_Sherlock helpfully moved a few feet to the right. “It’s a question of perspective.”_

_The sales clerk adjusted John’s tie, smoothed Sherlock’s jacket and stepped back and smiled at them. “Perfect. You make a very handsome couple.”_

_“We’re not –” John started. “We’re –”_

_“Thank you,” Sherlock interrupted. He moved back beside John and took his hand, grinning. “Still coming out. It’s a process . . .” he said, looking at John._

_John swatted his hand away. “We’re not getting married. He’s my best man.”_

_“Of course, sir,” said the clerk, clearly not believing him.  “Shall I have them delivered? Same address, Mr. Holmes?”_

_“Yes, and charge them to my brother’s account.”_

_“Sherlock –”_

_“It’s the least he can do.”  Sherlock stepped back into the fitting room to change out of the wedding suit. “Coming back to Baker Street?” he asked casually, pulling on his trousers._

_If John said yes, he knew they’d end up where they always did.  In Sherlock’s bed or on his couch or in his shower or any of the dozen other places they found to fuck.  The uneasy, mostly hands-off truce they negotiated after Sherlock’s return had lasted less than a month. Without ever talking about it, John had found himself pulled back into Sherlock’s bed. He didn’t know how it would end between them; he only knew that it would. It had to. He wasn’t going to be that sort of husband. Even if he_ was _that sort of boyfriend.  And Sherlock had the uncanny ability to make John feel like he was cheating on_ him _when he went home to Mary. Fuck. Maybe he was._

 _Back at Baker Street an hour later, John tried to stop, one hand twisted in Sherlock’s shirt, the other hooked on Sherlock’s belt._ _John pulled back gasping and dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder. "Wait,” he said._

_Sherlock flattened his hand on John’s back and waited._

_John took a long moment, then stepped back, taking his hands off Sherlock. “We really need to stop doing this.”_

_Sherlock sat down on the bed and looked up at John. “Very well,” he said evenly._

_He paced back and forth. “I’m getting married next week.”_

_“Why?” he said, his eyes motionless and totally unreadable._

_“I can’t –” John looked at him, his face tired and uncertain and sad. "Why am I even here?”_

_Sherlock stood up, crossed to John and put his hand on his shoulder. "Stop being so stupid, John, you need me,” he whispered, then pulled him in, and when John left before dawn the next morning, there were strands of Sherlock’s hair caught up in his fingers and in the buttonholes of his shirt._

 

John bought coffee and a muffin from the train’s food cart, then turned back to his laptop and searched for the folder that held the baptism pictures. He’d almost deleted them after Mary died, but in the end he kept them. His daughter had a right to know the best part of Mary.

He scrolled through them until he found the one he was looking for. Sherlock standing alone by the baptismal font, hands in both pockets, dark curls falling over his forehead, looking into the camera, smiling. John had taken it because it was the first time in days that Sherlock had been completely still. He’d been manic for weeks, solving every case that landed at his feet, searching for patterns, convinced Moriarty was still playing him. John knew Sherlock was using again but he knew better than to confront him. He left that to Mycroft.

_“Are you coming to the restaurant?” John asked him. “Mary made reservations.” John wasn’t sure why Mary thought babies and restaurants were a good combination._

_“Do you want me to?” Sherlock stepped closer._

_“You’re the godfather.”_

_“I’d rather do this.” Sherlock_ _moved his hands up to John's head, cupping his face, and opened John's mouth with his tongue. John groaned into Sherlock’s mouth, his fingers twisting in Sherlock’s hair._

_Sherlock’s arms slid around John’s waist and abruptly twisted away from the kiss, pushing John away._

_John stumbled back a step, looking at Sherlock in surprise, wiping a hand across his mouth. “What the  . . .?”_

_Sherlock raised one eyebrow and wrapped his scarf around his neck. John felt a punch of recognition at that gesture, the one that always meant John had been dismissed._

_“Give my apologies to Mary. I have a prior engagement.” Sherlock walked toward him, leaned in and whispered, “Best take a moment, though.” He gestured toward John’s trousers. John self-consciously took a step back. “Difficult to explain. Especially in a church.”_

_Before John could respond, Sherlock was gone. He spent the rest of the night checking his phone for a text. A ping. A post. A sign._

_And then Mary was dead. John said unforgivable things in the face of Sherlock’s unforgivable actions and the chasm between them widened until there was nowhere to go but apart._

_Grief came naturally to John – its pain was familiar, its timeline predictable. Mrs. Hudson and Molly stood by. His sister stepped up. Again. It all followed a heart wrenching pattern. What he never would have predicted was that it was Sherlock he missed most of all._

_Six months after she died, Mycroft slithered into John’s house, followed him into the kitchen, and asked him how much longer he planned to punish Sherlock. “I care about my brother. I won’t have you ruining him.”_

_“I will not discuss this with you.”  He leaned against the kitchen sink, arms folded._

_“Then you will listen. Playing the grieving widower doesn’t suit you. The sooner you admit that you are, in fact, relieved that Mary is dead, the sooner we all can move on from this tawdry little soap opera.”_

_“Fuck off.” John turned back to the sink and continued rinsing baby bottles._

_“I’ve spent most of my life protecting my brother from the people who would hurt him. In your case, however, I am at a loss. I continue to underestimate his attachment to you.”_

_John looked back at him over his shoulder. “Funny, I’ve always overestimated it.” He shook the water off his hands and dried them with a dishtowel._

_“I will not spar with you,” Mycroft said._

_“Sherlock was respons—” It was reflex now, blaming Sherlock._

_“Oh, do grow up, Dr. Watson. Sherlock is what he is. It can’t be a surprise to you that he lacks a certain  . . . emotional empathy. He fails to predict the outcomes of his actions, especially when blinded by the brilliance of his deductions.”_

_“You think?”_

_“I know you are seeing your Dr. Thompson again. Might I suggest that you explore the possibility that your unwillingness to see Sherlock may have nothing to do with your wife? I wager that you’ve never forgiven him for playing dead for two years. All that work it took to get over his death, to get on with your little life while he was out playing the hero. Did he ever ask you_ not _to marry Mary?”_

_John said nothing, fists clenched._

_“I didn’t think so.”_

_“Get out.”_

_Mycroft smiled and it was all John could do to keep his fists at his sides. After Mycroft left, after a glass and a half of the good stuff and a glass of the bad, he considered the real reason he hadn’t broken another of his bones on another Holmes brother’s jaw. Maybe Mycroft was right._

_“Fucking arrogant twat,” he muttered, tipping the bottle toward his glass.  He stopped when he heard Rosie’s whimper from the baby monitor. He froze in mid-pour, not knowing what to hope for. That Rosie would turn over and fall back to sleep. Or that she would wake up screaming, so he could stop thinking about what Mycroft had said. He gave it a good thirty seconds, and when he didn’t hear anything else, he set the bottle down on the table and laid his head back on the chair._

_Story of his life. Caught in the middle, never knowing what to hope for._

_He rubbed his palms against his eyes.  Of course Mycroft was right. Every fucking arrogant syllable.  He was evolved enough to recognise his inability to separate what he was supposed to feel from what he really felt . . .  If Sherlock hadn’t disappeared, John wouldn’t have met Mary, fucked Mary, married Mary._

_He wouldn’t have Rosie._

_“Aye, there’s the rub,” John said to the empty room._

*****

Harry was waiting for him at Edinburgh’s Waverley Station. She didn’t complain (too loudly) that she had to park four streets away and traffic was shite and she’d thrown up twice that morning, “ _so stay clear._ ” She was pregnant, almost four months and she looked beautiful, the hard lines around her eyes and mouth had softened, and John had to swallow before he leaned in and kissed her cheek, pulling her into a rough hug. He asked her how Lauren was and she laughed. “Busy. Tired. Happy about the baby. Rubbish timing though. We’ve been trying for ages; I’d pretty much given up hope. Pregnant bride – bit of a cliché, eh?” She realised what she said and her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Really.”

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “So you’re not angry with me? Lauren said I shouldn’t, but someone had to do something . . .”

He had no idea what she was talking about. She looked at him strangely and changed the subject. “You’re staying with Lauren and me and her parents, God help me, at the house tonight but we’ve booked rooms at the venue for everyone tomorrow night. You can use Lauren’s car while you’re here.”

“Venue?”

“Wedding-speak for where the wedding is being held. Can you believe the shoes I’m wearing tomorrow cost two hundred quid? Two hundred! I’m going to wear them for ten hours at the most, so that’s 20 quid an hour! I could hire someone to carry me around for that. Lauren calls it the Bridal Industrial Complex.” She headed towards the exit. “Hope that case of yours isn’t too heavy, it’s a bit of a hike.”

 

The house, new to Lauren and Harry but old by any other standard, was large and comfortable. Inside, after hugs all round, Harry collapsed into the armchair by the fireplace and Lauren led him upstairs to the guest room. The room was small and narrow with tall windows that looked out onto the park below. The bed was covered with a faded patchwork quilt John recognised from his childhood. He paused at the door and asked Lauren, “How is Harry? Really?” They both knew he meant “Is she coping?” Harry hadn’t had a drink in more than two years but the question was always there, simmering beneath the surface of things. He wondered if he’d ever stop worrying.

“She’s good, John,” and squeezed his hand. “Really. If you must worry about something, worry about the weather. Harry’s got her heart set on an outdoor wedding. Seen too many rom-coms, I suspect . . .” She tilted her head. “You haven’t said a word about it. Does that mean you’re really okay with it? You’re not angry?”

He looked confused. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? Why would I be? You’re the best thing that ever happened to her.” He hugged her quickly in case she needed proof. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”

“Okay. Good. Great, actually.” She didn’t look convinced. “Look, I’ll let you get settled. Lunch is in half an hour. Nothing fancy, just soup and sandwiches.” She turned back and said, “Oh, I forgot. My mother’s baked shortbread biscuits. They’re rubbish, and we all know it, but we pretend they’re delish. Lying to my mother about her baking is a family tradition.”

John texted Molly and she sent back a picture of Rosie playing happily on the floor. He unpacked his suitcase and hung his new suit – price tag still dangling from one sleeve – from the hook on the back of the door.

“Lunch is ready!” Harry called up from the kitchen just as he was starting down the stairs.  She sounded exactly his like mother and for a moment he was ten again, heading down to tea, fingers crossed there would be enough biscuits left in the tin for everyone.

 

His sister’s wish for an outdoor wedding was granted. Saturday was warm and sunny with no showers in the forecast, so eight rows of chairs were set up in the hotel garden. She and Lauren would say their vows under a trellis of ivy, pink hydrangea and white roses. Their bouquets were made from the same flowers, and pink and white tulips decorated each table in the hotel ballroom. John didn’t want to know how much September tulips cost. There were favours on every plate, a basket of candy-covered almonds and a pink flash drive containing all the wedding music, and a chocolate fountain in one corner. It was everything Harry wasn’t, but everything she apparently wanted. The Bridal Industrial Complex indeed.

At the rehearsal, he’d offered to walk Harry down the aisle, but that had only set her off on a ten minute rant about patriarchy and white male privilege and how, since she didn’t belong to anyone, no one needed to give her away.  “You’re the best man, arsehole, your job is to keep track of the rings and make a brilliant speech at the reception. Do I need to write it for you?”

“Sod off. I can write my own bloody speech.”

“And make it happy. No maudlin shit,” She punched him in the arm, just the way she used to.

John kept himself busy all morning doing his sister’s bidding. There were flowers to pick up and chairs to decorate and the vicar to fetch from the train station. John had remained friends with David McGowan and he’d agreed to perform the wedding ceremony. John even put his surgical training to good use moving the buttons on Harry’s suit jacket.

An hour before it was time to get dressed, she pulled him into her room and showed him the pearl necklace she was going to wear. “It’s the something old bit. It was Mum’s, do you recognise it? Wanted to show you first, so you can get any blubbering out of the way. You’re a sentimental twat sometimes.”

He smiled, pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and held out his arm. “Dad’s watch.”

“Oh, Johnny.” Her eyes filled and she hugged him, crying softly against his shoulder. “I’m not going soft,” she insisted between sobs, “I’m hormonal.”

 

During the ceremony, while Harry and Lauren pledged mutual love, respect and shared litter scooping duties, John wished his parents were alive to see Harry finally and completely happy. Even if it did mean she was pregnant and marrying a Glasgow girl who wasn’t Catholic and had odd ideas about Scottish home rule and the ethics of eating meat. It would have gone a long way to relieving the irrational guilt they both felt about Harry’s drinking. His parents believed they had unwittingly sowed the seeds of her unhappiness. John thought of Rosie and understood.

When it was over, Lauren and Harry, blissfully happy, held hands and practically danced down the aisle together hugging and greeting their guests while _Dogs Days are Over_ played. John thought she’d been joking when she showed him the playlist. “I cannot be married without Florence + The Machine,” she said, daring him to criticise.

John watched them, smiling. He thanked David and started walking down the aisle, nodding at the few people he knew. He was halfway to the back when he saw him. He was standing in the last row, both hands gripping the chair in front of him, a fragile smile on his face.  After a long stunned moment, John walked over to him. "Why are you here?” he said. 

The smile on Sherlock’s face collapsed. “Your sister invited me. She said you agreed.”

John took a stumbling step backwards and Harry was there, putting out a hand to steady him.  “The fuck she did.” He turned to Harry, “Is he lying?”

“No. I did tell you . . .” She looked close to tears.

Lauren stepped between John and Sherlock.  Her voice was low and full of warning, “This is our wedding and you two are not going to fuck it up. If you need to behave badly, do it somewhere else.” She pointed a finger at John. “And yes, we invited him. It was probably mad, but we did it and we told you we did and you never said no, so you don’t get to throw a tantrum now.”

“When did you tell me?”

“Harry wrote you a note. It was in the invit—”

“—invitation,” John finished. He scrubbed a hand across his face and shook his head. “I never opened it.”

“Careless,” Sherlock said.

He looked at Sherlock. “Oi. You. Shut up.” He said it louder than he meant to.

“Should I leave?” Sherlock asked. He said it lightly, but there was a hesitation there John didn’t recognise.

“Yes.” He looked around, people were starting to stare. He couldn’t do this to his sister. “No. Let’s go inside.” He looked back at Lauren and Harry.

“You have half an hour. Then get your arse back out here,” Lauren said. “You’re the best man, for God’s sake.”

John walked to the hotel bar and sat a table in the corner. Sherlock followed him but stopped at the bar to order drinks. He set two glasses on the table and sat opposite him. “Glenlivit. Neat.”

John gave him two points for remembering his favourite drink. Minus a million for everything else. John emptied the glass in one swallow. He eyed Sherlock’s glass.

Sherlock inched it toward John. “Go ahead.”

“Fuck you.” His voice drained away, forgetting what he was going to say. He came back to himself to see Sherlock studying him. He was unsettled by how blue Sherlock’s eyes looked even in the dim bar. “I can almost understand Harry inviting you. Now that _she’s_ happy, she wants everyone to be happy. But why did you come?”

“She said you agreed, more precisely, she said you didn’t disagree.”

“OK, I got that. But why did you want to come?”

“I needed to . . .” Sherlock took a breath. “I needed to . . . consult with you. A new case.”

“A case?”  He lifted his empty glass and the bartender nodded.

“Yes. A client has hired me to . . . to explore whether his business partner would consider a . . . rapprochement of sorts. Not my area.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “They had a falling out after one of the partners, the founding partner, did something . . . unforgivable.”

“Unforgivable?”

Sherlock ran one finger around the rim of his glass. “Yes, I would say so.”

“So no chance then.”

“Well, a certain amount of time has passed. And the partner has tried to change.”

The waitress set a new glass of whisky in front of John. He quirked one eyebrow. “People don’t change.”

“Perhaps they do if they want something badly enough.” Sherlock pulled down his tie and undid his top button. John watched the small triangle of skin at the base of Sherlock's neck move as he spoke.

“Does he? This client of yours?” John asked, sipping his drink.

Sherlock warmed his glass between both hands. “I believe he does. He thought being alone would protect him. He was wrong.”

John was trying hard not to feel like he was being crushed from the inside, trying very hard to remember how to breathe. “My guess is that the other partner, the one who thought he had been wronged, said things he didn’t really mean.” He took a breath. “I didn’t know how to take them back.” John glanced down at his watch. “Shit. I have to get back.” He pushed the chair away from the table and stood.

Sherlock watched him but didn’t say anything.

John hesitated, then reached in his pocket for the key card to his room and held it out. “Room 309.  Wait for me there. We’ll talk when the reception is over. We’ve waited this long, another few hours won’t matter.”

Sherlock nodded and took the key card. He reached out and straightened the rose in John’s lapel.

John suddenly felt like crying. He turned jerkily and headed back into the sunlight.

*****

A long four hours later, after a dinner of roast not-beef and curried vegetables, a series of  speeches (John’s was surprisingly brilliant, and although not maudlin or sad, it still made his sister cry), he made his excuses (tired, headache, estranged lover/best friend waiting in his room) and took the lift upstairs. He stood at his door, unsure what to expect. That Sherlock would do what he did best – disappear, send a cryptic text – or maybe he meant what he said about changing and was actually waiting for him.  

He leaned his head against the door and counted to ten. At nine and a half, the door swung open and John stumbled/fell into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock let go of the door and grabbed John by his shoulders. John tried to get his feet under him, but he was too far forward and only managed to propel them both farther into the room.

 Sherlock wrapped his arms tighter around John and let gravity and momentum take them to the bed. John landed with an “umphfff” onto Sherlock’s chest, knocking his nose against Sherlock’s chin.

“Stop moving.” Sherlock put both hands in front of John’s head for protection and John stopped struggling and placed his arms on either side of Sherlock’s chest. He felt an odd giggle percolate in his throat and he let it escape, nudging Sherlock’s hands away from his face with his head. Sherlock just looked at him, not moving.

Sherlock’s mouth hovered between a grimace and a smile and John the doctor, knowing full well it was all pheromones and nerve endings and not a well thought out idea at all, dipped down and kissed Sherlock hard on the mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he closed his mouth and tried to push John’s shoulders, but John pressed harder against Sherlock’s chest and forced Sherlock’s mouth open and the familiar taste of tobacco and whisky and coffee cracked all the way down John’s chest. Sherlock moaned against his lips and John felt Sherlock’s hands on his waist and then lower and suddenly there was nothing in his head but this. _Them._

It was Sherlock who broke the moment. He turned his head away and shoved John hard to the left. John rolled onto his back, panting. Sherlock quickly stood up and walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

John listened to the water running for a moment, and sat up, his hands gripping the bedspread, breathing hard.

What the fuck? Twelve months of silence, of never wanting to see Sherlock again, months of pining for him every day, months and months and not thirty seconds in and they were shagging. Well, he was. Sherlock was hiding in the bathroom.

He heard the water stop and he stood, smoothing out his rumpled suit, the wilting rose tumbling to the floor. He faced the door and waited.

After a moment, Sherlock walked through the door and stopped. John couldn’t read the look on his face. “Sherlock . . . I should . . .”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, you should.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” John felt his chest grow warm. Fight or flight? Definitely fight.

“I always know what you are going to say. I’m just not always sure you will say it.” Sherlock stepped closer. He reached for the pin that had held the rose and pulled it out of John’s lapel.

“Bollocks.” John grabbed his hand. “Can you just stop for a minute? I can’t do this like . . . this.”

Sherlock stilled, his hand holding the pin, John’s fingers around his wrist. “All right.”

John let go of his wrist. Sherlock laid the pin on the dresser and walked to the chair across from the bed and sat down.

John perched on the edge of the bed facing him. Sherlock crossed his legs and his hands moved to their usual position, fingers steepled, elbows cocked.

John shook his head. “That’s not fair.”

“What?”

John nodded toward Sherlock’s chest. “That. You. All elbows and knees and cheekbones. Like we’re about to discuss why Mrs. Hudson never hoovers on Thursday or why Lestrade can’t figure out his arse from his elbow. Like everything is . . .”

Sherlock unfolded and sat forward. “It was not what I expected, but your actions would indicate that everything is . . .”

John frowned. “No. We can’t  . . . we have to . . .”

Sherlock lifted his hand. “We have to do no such thing. You invited me to your room. You _kissed_ me. For the last year, you wouldn’t even allow me in your house. You blocked my texts. In the parlance of relationship nonsense, this is what I would call progress. ” Clearly, Sherlock had interpreted John’s enthusiasm a few minutes earlier as just shy of a marriage proposal.

“God, you’re an arsehole.” John shook his head again.

He blinked. “Yes.”

“If you and I . . . if we . . . it can’t be like it was before. Not after everything that’s happened.”

Sherlock nodded, suddenly looking less sure of himself.

“I have a child.”

“I am aware.”

“She cannot be hurt. I can’t let her be hurt. I have to protect her. She has no . . .”

Sherlock leaned back as if John had hit him. “I am well aware of my actions and their tragic consequences. Tragic because the result was . . . is a motherless child and . . .” Sherlock hesitated and swallowed.

John watched, fascinated. This was so un- Sherlock-like. Maybe he _had_ changed.

“And because I hurt you . . . again . . . and for the first time in my life I can find no one to blame but myself.”

John glanced at the empty space beside him on the bed and Sherlock crossed to sit beside him, their shoulders barely touching.  There were a thousand things John wanted to say, but he settled on the truest one, “I missed you.”

Sherlock turned and drew him closer, bending his head to press his lips just under John’s ear. “I know.”And then he kissed him, long and deep and low.

John smiled against his lips. With a mutual sigh, they relaxed against each other. All the ease that was missing from their conversation was here, in the way Sherlock’s thumb stroked John’s knuckles. Their bodies seemed to recognise one another as Sherlock’s tongue explored John’s lower lip, sucking gently as John tipped his head back and moaned. They leaned back until they were lying on the bed facing each other. Sherlock kissed him again, then rolled away and stood up. For a short second, John imagined that Sherlock had changed his mind, lost his nerve. But then he watched as he took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. He slowly began to unbutton his shirt.

“God,” John managed, his erection flush against his trousers. He stood up facing Sherlock on the opposite side of the bed, his fingers scrambling to get his shirt undone and trousers and pants off.  The hotel room was chilly and he shivered as the cold air met his hot skin. They fell back onto the bed together and Sherlock drew a wet line of kisses along John’s collarbone and John thrust his hips, rubbing their cocks together. Sherlock wrapped his warm hand around John’s cock and brushed his thumb over the tip.

He wasn’t going to last long. Sherlock stroked him faster and John’s body became one long line of tension until the first wave of orgasm hit. He leaned back, lost somewhere between coming and dying. After an eternity, John rolled over and watched as Sherlock took his own cock in his hand, rolling his fingers over the tip, looking at John, his eyes dark. Wanting.

John moved down the bed and moved Sherlock’s hand off his cock and fingered his balls. Sherlock reached out and threaded his fingers through John’s hair, pulling him down onto his cock. John took it in, sucking and licking and raking his teeth up his shaft. Sherlock thrusted upward with the same rhythm that John was sucking him. Sherlock’s moans became more frantic and he arched his back, coming in waves in John’s mouth.

 They showered together and came back to bed. They lay facing each other, wet hair slicked back, skin flushed red from the hot water. Sherlock cupped the side of John’s face and ran his thumb along his jaw. John held Sherlock’s hand against his face for a moment and closed his eyes.

“John,” Sherlock breathed. Another kiss, this one laced with desire and apology and forgiveness, all the things they could never say.

Later, John fit himself neatly into Sherlock, his arm curving over his back, his hand tucked warmly under Sherlock’s body. John thought Sherlock had fallen asleep when the feather-light breath of Sherlock’s whisper drifted across his skin, “Stay with me.”

John understood then that Sherlock had always been there, in the corner of his mind, in the tracks of his memory, right there close enough to touch. He held onto him, trying hard to steady his voice. “Where else would I go?”

 


End file.
